


Fragility of Memory

by Miah_Arthur



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angel Self-Actualization, Angst, Case Fic, Delusions, F/M, Flashbacks, Free the curls, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV) Gets a Hug, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Non-Consensual Groping, Non-Consensual Kissing, Post-Episode: s02e16 God Johnson, Therapy, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-04-07 09:51:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19082599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miah_Arthur/pseuds/Miah_Arthur
Summary: Overdosed on Haldol by Nurse Kipsey in God Johnson, Lucifer becomes convinced he is actually human. He struggles to come to grips with his history when viewed through this always-been-human lens. Just when he's achieved a happy equilibrium, Mum re-enters his life with Her soon-to-explode urgent need of the Lightbringer.





	1. He Was Left With...

**Author's Note:**

> Heed the tags. Additional tags will be added with later chapters.
> 
> Thank you to everyone on Filii Hircus discord. 
> 
> Especially thank you to my betas: **Matchstick_Dolly** and **Obliobla**  
>  Extra thanks to **Obliobla** and **Wollfgang** for assistance and sounding boards on the therapy

****

# Fragility of Memory

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## Chapter One

 ****

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#### He Was Left With

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### 

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##### Memory, like liberty, is a fragile thing–Elizabeth Loftus

### 

 

 

“You may want to rethink this. You see, I _am_ actually the Devil.”

Santa leaned over the trolley. “No. You’re _not_ the Devil. You’re just a man who’s delusional in a mental hospital. You made it all up.”

“I’m not the Devil. I’m just a man who’s delusional. I made it up. I made it all...up.”

The lovely lights flashed above Lucifer. He chuckled. “Let there be light.”

“Oh, shut up. You’re not the Devil. You didn’t hang the stars. You weren’t there when time began. You’re thirty-five, for fuck’s sake.”

“Thirty-five…” he echoed obligingly. His eyes closed.

 

“Lucifer!” Fingers dug in above his collarbone. “Lucifer. Open your eyes!”

Complying was hard, and his reward was a confusing blur he barely recognized as his detective.

“Not the Devil… I made it all up.”

“Oh, Lucifer, I know. I know you’re only human, and I wouldn’t have you any other way.”

“Human. Wouldn’t–” His stomach clenched and foul-smelling warmth coated his chin.

“Roll him on his side.” A man’s voice accompanied hands, moving his lax body as more of the foul substance erupted. The Devil did not vomit. Humans were quite prone to it though. _Wouldn’t have you any other way._

A rough cloth gently cleaned his face. Shame burned through him. No one should see him like this. Weak. Pathetic. He tried to sit up. Strong hands pressed on him from behind, trapping him in place.

“Release me!” He was manhandled and helpless, yanked toward his Father’s judgement, as he had been at the end of his failed rebellion. “I won’t go back!”

Cool hands cupped his cheeks. “Lucifer. It’s Chloe. You’re in the hospital. They’re trying to help you.”

“I don’t want to go back, Detective! Please. I don’t have m'wings anymore. I-I can’t do it.”

“Lucifer, your father can’t hurt you anymore.”

“But He’s-He’s God. All-Powerful.”

“Oh, Lucifer.” The sadness in her voice cut through his panic better than a blade. Azrael’s blade. What had he done? Uriel–“Your father is not all-powerful. He’s human, just like you. He can’t hurt you anymore. I won’t let him.” Her thumbs gently wiped under his eyes, taking away more evidence of his weakness. The restraining hands left him.

“Promise?”

“With everything I have.”

“I-I–” He winced. “I don’t feel–” More vomit spewed forth. More evidence he was not the Devil.

The hands came back, pulling and lifting him into sitting. “Mr. Morningstar? Can you swallow for me?”

He wanted to chuckle at the unintended double entendre, but instead he dutifully obeyed, swallowing the acidic taste of bile.

“That’s great. Here. Small sips of this. It’ll make you feel better,” the blur that was the detective said.

A small amount of sickly sweet, cherry-flavored liquid poured into his mouth. He didn’t like it, but she was making encouraging noises at him, so he swallowed and allowed her to continue.

“We need to take him to the ER for observation. Neuroleptic overdoses can deteriorate unexpectedly. Then, once he’s stabilized, we can discuss his psychiatric care further.”

“I’m mortal,” Lucifer pronounced to no one in particular.

“Yes, you are. You need to let them take care of you.”

He nodded.

 

* * *

 

Lucifer was draped over the table, head resting on one arm; with the other hand he set a checker spinning like a top. He remembered a coin spinning in the air above his palm. He frowned. He didn’t remember the trick and the checkers always stayed stubbornly affected by gravity.

It was one of many memories that made little sense. Prior to his arrival in LA very little made sense. The checker settled flat, and he spun it again.

 

* * *

 

A stillness existed in him that he’d never experienced before. An unfamiliar, nigh eerie silence reigned in his mind. The voices, albeit vile and hated, had been screaming at him for so long that the emptiness felt lonely. He reached for that towering inferno of rage that had defined so much of his life and...found it banked to smoldering coals. Worse, the very comely Mrs. Wallins grabbed him in the hallway, shoved him into a corner and forced her tongue into his mouth before the guards (the nurses called them orderlies) pulled her away, and his cock didn’t even twitch. He stood there unsure until a nurse appeared in front of him. This had never happened before. Had it? It… The nurse was speaking gently, as if he were some wounded animal to be coaxed forward. He reached for Lucifer’s arm, but this was wrong.

He jerked his arm away from the man and pulled himself to his full height. “No one touches me without my leave.”

The orderly stepped back, raising his hands in a placating motion. “Sure thing, Mr. Morningstar. Whatever you say.”

Lucifer slumped against the wall, energy drained. “I wish to go to my room.”

The woman appeared two days later, remorseful and repentant, promising her medication change put her in control of herself again. Lucifer accepted her apology, still confused. He would normally have welcomed her advances, and that was the normal response, right? Why did it leave him feeling _wrong_ now?

 

* * *

 

“Lucifer?”

Joy overrode memories of ash and light that brought no brightness. “Detective!”

“How are you today?”

“Excellent!”

She sat in the chair beside him. “Did-did you run out of hair gel?”

“As if I would ever use gel with these curls.” He leaned back in his chair and sighed at her continued scrutiny. “No, I have plenty of products, Detective. It just doesn’t seem worth the effort.”

“Doesn’t seem worth the…?”

She fell silent and Lucifer’s thoughts drifted back to ash and blue light, doors and distant screaming. The place held as much fear as his blunted emotions could muster. Anger simmered, and something lurked deeper within him. He didn’t have a name for it, but it haunted his dreams. He shook his head, trying to dislodge the false memories.

“Detective?” he said faintly. She turned her full attention to him. The power of it nearly wilted his words in his throat, but he needed to know. “What-what really happened to me? Where is the Hell I was in? It– _Something_ was real, wasn’t it? If-if I made it all up, why did it hurt so much?”

“I’m trying to find out, Lucifer.” Her gaze was intense, and he turned away first, unable to bear it. She knelt in front of him, taking hold of his hands. “Lucifer, I’m here for you if you need anything. You know that, right?”

He nodded quickly.

She squeezed his hands, her voice strained. “You’re my partner.”

“Detective? Are you well?” He leaned toward her, concern for her overriding the (false!) memories of Hell.

“Yeah. I’m good.”

She examined him intently. For what he was unsure.

“Detective?”

“I’d like to hug you.”

“Hug? I don’t underst-of, of course.”

“Are you sure?”

He nodded and leaned further toward her. She clasped her arms around his shoulders and pulled them together, one hand sneaking up to his hair. His head sank to her shoulder, and he closed his eyes. This was...nice. His detective. His reason for staying, for being human. No. No, he’d always been human. She just made him ready to admit it.

“We’re partners, Lucifer. You make me a better detective, and I’ll be waiting for you when you’re ready to come back to work.”

He nodded against her shoulder.

She pulled away and dragged an arm across her eyes.

“I have to go now, Lucifer. I’ll come to see you again soon, okay.”

He nodded again. The pull of the ash and blue and burning felt less real now, and he should tell her that, but she left before the words formed.

 

* * *

 

“Everyone, we have a new member today, so if you can, give a few extra background details in your opening. Who would like to start?”

Lucifer took in the pathetic group splayed around him. They were _real_. Heaven and Hell were _not_. He tried to focus. He kept hearing he needed to concentrate on the present moment. That right now was real, but he was tired and a widening gulf of nothingness continually threatened to wrench away his grasp on _now_. Sometimes he lost the strength to hold, and he fell back, drifting in the space that should be his linear past.

 

Dr. Linda couldn’t see him any longer. They had punished her for helping him break God Johnson out of the other hospital. He rubbed at the ache that settled in his chest whenever he thought on the damage done to her career. She helped him so much, even if she had fallen prey to his delusions. Without her, and their deal–apparently sex with therapists was frowned upon–he never would have felt secure enough to be just himself, a man only. _Glowing eyes, flashes of skinless flesh_. He shook his head again. No, _not_ the Devil. That wasn’t _real_.

 

Lucifer caught hold of now again and saw the same pitiful group. Was this the initial session or had he attended many while lost? He should have cared, but he didn’t have the energy.

“I’m Madeline. I get messages from extraterrestrials. No one believes me, but I know they’ll come for me soon!”

The mousy woman fidgeted, furtively eyeing each participant before looking away. Lucifer straightened in his seat. _He recognized this_. She was waiting for condemnation, expecting it. Well, she wouldn’t get it from him, belief in aliens or no.

After a long pause Madeline continued, “I…. Sometimes I wish the aliens never contacted me to start with! Everyone thinks I’m crazy now and all my friends have told me they never want to see me again!”

Lucifer jolted toward her. He wanted to…. He wanted…. He sagged back. He wanted to comfort her, but he didn’t know how. He couldn’t lie and say he believed her. How did one provide comfort to a human in pain?

A man who surpassed Amenadiel’s physique spoke up from alongside Lucifer. “We hear you, Madeline, and we’ll be here to listen as you go through this.”

Madeline brightened at his words and settled in her chair, hugging a pillow, smiling, but Lucifer saw tears trail down her face. It was an entirely confusing display, and he let himself drift.

 

His new therapist was a man named Dr. Phillips. His _desire_ was to help his patients. The doctor wanted nothing–definitely not sex–from Lucifer aside from him trying to get better. He refused to make it a deal. To Lucifer it was like walking on quicksand, but the doctor walked beside him, kept him from sinking. They sifted through his memories, looking for the things that appeared real or at least possible, for any clue that might help to identify him. 

Nothing before he stood on that LA beach six years ago was coherent. He remembered waking to intense pain the morning after Maze cut his wings off. But the idea of confronting the scars on his back and what they meant on a human body that never possessed wings? He didn‘t know when he’d have the strength for that.

 

The group felt less pathetic than before. Madeline still held the unwavering belief that everything was a message from aliens. The muscular man, whose visitors called him Francis, but who told the group his name was Stone Griffon, still demonstrated kindness. Lucifer watched him understand what people needed to hear at the moment to help them. He thought perhaps he could learn how to do this. He found that he _wanted_ to.

It came as a shock when Stone stood in front of the group, shoulders hunched, head down, voice shaking and said, “My sister asked me again to come live with her.”

Lucifer saw fear in the posture, and it unsettled him enough to speak for the first time in the circle. “You’re afraid.” Everyone turned to him, and Lucifer squirmed under their combined attention, but he continued regardless. “Why?”

Stone drew in a deep breath and shuffled his feet, but answered, “I-I tried living outside. Everything is so fast. The stress...” He swallowed hard. “The voices come back. Th-They scream in my head, and they convince me that the meds are hurting me. I’m...” He looked to Dr. Phillips for support and seemed to find it. “I’m dangerous. I can’t risk it, but it hurts them all to think I’m locked away here.”

“You’re happy here. If they love you, they should want you to be happy!” Lucifer shouted, surging to his feet.

“Mr. Morningstar, there is no shouting in group. Take your seat, please.”

Lucifer held the doctor’s gaze for a long moment, before flicking his eyes toward Stone. The man seemed diminished into himself, and a knife blade of emotion twisted in Lucifer’s chest. “Sorry.” He collapsed back into his chair, and tried to will Stone to hear his intention. “My apologies, Stone.”

 

What remained of his memories when the elements of fantasy were extirpated? His family life had once been lovely when he was very young. He was sure of that, or at least clung to it, for it comforted him. His Father had been present and fair, his Mother warm and loving. He loved his siblings very much, and they _had_ loved him. Then something changed. His Father became remote. His Mother vacillated between hot and cold. He often drew Her attention to himself to the annoyance of his siblings, but no one else deserved...well whatever happened in reality. He knew his memories of Her wild excesses were false. They _had_ to be. A mother wouldn’t do those things. Would She?

He shook away those thoughts. Only the real was permitted here. He had...disagreed with his Father. He wanted to be allowed to make his own choices. There was a fight. (Not a rebellion to overthrow Heaven. That wasn’t real.) Dad chucked him out of the house...and then nothing made sense.

He remembered pain, so much pain. Hunger. Thirst. Heat and blue light and doors he didn’t want to enter. He remembered fighting demons. He shook his head again. No, demons weren’t real. Had he fought anything in reality? If the fighting was real, then all those horrific memories of torturing souls might be real, too. Him being _evil_ might be real. _I know that’s not who you really are_. The detective was right. She must be right. Whatever he had been doing, however long he had been doing it (It was more than fifteen years. It had to be more, didn’t it?), his mind couldn’t cope and had overwritten it with these fantasies of power and desire.

He was told he had a mental illness called dissociative amnesia (among others), likely triggered by a traumatic event. He might never remember what truly happened to him, and not knowing frightened him in a way the visions of Heaven and Hell had not. 

He was left trying to make sense of an elaborate system of delusions and hallucinations, and a bewildering array of coping mechanisms they assured him were categorically not healthy for a human body.

 

“My name is Isaiah, and this is stupid.” The new patient was painfully thin, like a wraith. He twitched and paced through the unit, refusing to sit, sometimes clawing at himself when he thought the orderlies weren’t looking. Angry welts ran up his arms.

“Is that everything you wish to share today?” Dr. Phillips didn’t pass judgement on Isaiah, even in the face of the negativity. Lucifer felt a warmth and a burgeoning desire to share in group.

Isaiah fidgeted a moment longer and said, “Well...it is stupid, but the food’s not bad, so I guess I can stick around.”

He sat, and a woman named Ava stood up. “I don’t hear them anymore. All those voices telling me I’m stupid and worthless, and, and all of it. They stopped. I think, maybe, I’d like to join the art class this afternoon.”

A chorus of congratulations came from around the circle as she sat.

 

Lucifer searched for the proper place for the piece in his hand. The puzzle was partially complete. The outline was there. The picture spreading toward the middle. He _needed_ to shape it into order.

The detective slid into the seat beside Lucifer and placed a folder on the table before him. “Lucifer?”

Lucifer raised his head with a start. “Detective!” He held a piece out to her. She didn’t take it, so he placed it himself. 

“Lucifer, do you remember when you asked me to help find out what really happened to you?”

His shoulders tightened, and he swallowed hard before darting a glance at her. He nodded.

She opened the folder. “We already knew we couldn’t find you under the name Lucifer Morningstar before six years ago, so I started by entering your description into the national database of missing persons. Then expanded that to an Interpol search.”

She stopped talking. Lucifer knew that he should say something, or at least look at her, but his mind was chaotic today, even more so than the puzzle. He could listen or he could speak. He didn’t think he could manage both.

“Are you with me, Lucifer?”

He nodded again and snapped another piece into its rightful place. She hadn’t found him. She would have led with success if it existed. His hand shook as it reached for the next piece. He clenched it, still extended. He’d hoped… Well, he had hoped. He scoffed, Hope was an evil bitch, and he couldn’t control her. Place the pieces. He could control that. He _needed_ control.

“I ran your fingerprints and DNA. Somehow that never happened during your background check. You at least know now you have no outstanding warrants for your arrest anywhere.”

_Eons forbidden to speak to his siblings. Amenadiel, his only link, and only when he escaped, seeking confirmation he wasn’t forgotten._ He squeezed his eyes closed. Those memories weren’t real. They weren’t. He opened them to the half-completed puzzle. He’d known it was an exercise in futility to think anyone cared about the Devil. He turned in his chair to face her and met her eyes. “No one ever looked for me.”

She sighed. “No, Lucifer. It doesn’t look like it. We’re still combing through old missing children reports, checking any that pop up, but so far nothing matches. Inquiries have gone into the other English-speaking countries, but–”

“Not just England?”

She smiled, but her soft voice spoke of sadness. “Remember the man that came to visit you last week?”

Lucifer thought, but shook his head. His thoughts spiraled away from _now_ , so he turned back to the puzzle. The next piece needed to be found, and the next, and the one after that. Piece by piece, he tied himself to reality.

Her voice reached for him, anchoring him more securely. “He’s a British linguistics professor, an expert on English accents, and he says that your accent doesn’t really fit with a single place in England. It sort of shifts from place to place. You also use a lot of American pronunciations and words for things, which makes it even more complicated.”  
He peered at her. “I’m not British.” 

She nodded. 

The tethers of his human identity loosened. “Of course I’m not British.” _Worthless one. Corruptor._ “Because I’m the Devil?” _Traitor. Punisher. Poison. Mons_ –

The detective’s hands brushed his cheeks, hauling him back to _now_. “You have a real past. I haven’t given up yet, but Lucifer, if no one looked, they didn’t deserve you.”   
He pulled away from her, his vision misting over. Puzzle. It wasn’t done. It needed to be done. She didn’t speak as he tried to fit the next piece. His hands shook and none of the shapes worked. She scooted closer and picked up a piece. He froze, only his eyes following her hand as she snapped it into place. With a choked laugh, he leaned into her for a moment before picking up a piece and carefully deciding where it should go.

After a couple of minutes of quiet concentration, she said, “The professor said there were a few possibilities. You could be British, but something muddled your accent. Or maybe you grew up in an expat community around a lot of people from different parts of the UK. Or… you might be from the US or another former colony and learned a very good approximation.”

Memories bubbled up. This time of people and places and conversations. “Will had such a bawdy sense of humor, but Oscar was a lot more fun. Pity what the small minds of the day did to him.”

“Are-are you talking about Shakespeare and Oscar Wilde?”

He smiled, lost in old wordplay and days long gone. 

She patted his arm. “Okay, Lucifer. That’s okay. We’ve almost finished your puzzle.” She handed him a piece, but the lure of the opium den was stronger.

 

Dr. Phillips changed his medication and time gradually became linear again. Hours turned into days in a straightforward march. Holding onto the real and the now exhausted him less. Life developed a routine he could depend on. Isaiah stopped pacing and muttering to himself. Stone carried himself with confidence again after his sister told him she hadn’t meant to scare him. Madeline went days without finding a message in her morning porridge. Ava kept going to the art class. 

The desire to share in the group grew until Lucifer bolted up the next time Dr. Phillips asked if anyone else wished to speak. He looked at each of them, then said, “I’m Lucifer Morningstar. I don’t know who I am, but I don’t want to be the Devil.”

No one mocked him. No one rolled their eyes at him. He smoothed his shirt and said, “Right, well, that’s-that’s all.”

He sat, his pulse pounding in his ears, but with a smile he couldn‘t stop. What was this?

 

He was left with Amenadiel. His brother. Was he really, though? He was told it was highly unlikely they had the same parents, that human genetics rarely combined to create such divergent skin tones and hair textures in siblings. Amenadiel was his brother. They _had_ the same parents. It was a basic tenet of his identity, but he was told that one or both of them was most likely adopted. That idea made Lucifer ache to his very core. Amenadiel was his brother, in every sense of the word, and trying to replace that in his heart with a man who had manipulated him for unknown reasons didn’t work. It couldn’t. _He had a family_ and Amenadiel was the only one of them who hadn’t severed all ties with him.

Still.

He had memories of escaping Hell and Amenadiel finding him, berating him, sometimes beating him, and returning him to Hell. He had always believed he earned those words and that pain. Hadn’t he goaded Amenadiel relentlessly? Hadn’t he thrown punches of his own? All those years spent with Amenadiel as his jailor couldn’t be real, could they? Amenadiel being behind Malcolm trying to kill him was too far from a real possibility wasn’t it? (I made it all up.) And yet. Chloe had seen and told him they _had_ found (fake) wings and Amenadiel had been there. Chloe had seen and told him the bruises were real. The fear that coiled in his gut when he considered facing his brother was real, and here, safely away from his brother, he could admit its existence.

 

Lucifer stood before the group several days later. “I drink when I’m, well, I drink all the time. When I’m with people and when I’m alone. I drink because I enjoy it, but also when I’m sad, angry.” He fidgeted with the toy Dr. Phillips had given him and continued quietly. “And when I’m scared.”

He couldn’t look the others in the eye. “I badly want a drink today.”

“What feeling are you having now?” Isaiah asked.

“It hurts.” Lucifer rubbed his sternum. “Here. When I think about….” He pulled his arms in tight, the fidget squeezed to his chest. “About being cast out. No one-no one would even look at me. I pleaded with my Mother, but She turned Her back while my Father-my Father-I couldn’t–” He stopped and took several deep breaths, grounding himself in _now_ before he continued. “It hurt. And sometimes it still hurts to remember, and today I just want a drink. I miss my flask.”

“You’ve just shown us two great coping mechanisms, Mr. Morningstar,” Dr. Phillips said, looking around the group.

Lucifer’s pride took notice of the praise, and he said, “Really?”

Madeline said, “You’re having a hard time, and you shared with us.”

Cameron, a newer patient who hadn’t spoken in the group yet, whispered, “You too?”

“You used breathing exercises to ground yourself,” Ava added.

Lucifer fixated on what Cameron said. The boy couldn’t be much older than eighteen. He possessed a slight build, and constantly hunched in on himself, often sitting as he was now with his knees pulled to his chest, minimizing himself even more. Even his face was half hidden behind his hair. _“You, too?”_ What had the boy meant by that quiet question? Did he also want a drink or did he recognize himself in the pain Lucifer had shared?

He realized everyone was looking at him. He dropped into his chair and ran his fingers over every button on the cube he held. He wanted a drink to hold as a shield between himself and the group. With a drink between them, he could face anyone. This toy was a pathetic substitute.

Ava took her turn and talked about wanting to call her son, but his thoughts drifted to Cameron. He glanced at the boy and caught Cameron’s gaze darting away from him. Lucifer looked at the toy, but kept the boy at the edge of vision. He stared at Lucifer with an unfathomable emotion on his face. Its depth unsettled Lucifer until he was unable to remain sitting. He bolted out of his seat, startling Isaiah who was in the middle of talking about how he had believed the CIA was following him.

“I wish to return to my room. Immediately.”

“Mr. Morningstar, group is almost over–”

He shook his head. “No. Now. I can’t stay.” He glanced at Cameron who had hidden himself away again. He backed away to the door. “I can’t.”

The doctor nodded to one of the orderlies, Bill Clipper, and said, “Very well. Mr. Clipper will walk with you in case you need anything.”

Lucifer nodded sharply and allowed Bill to walk with him.

 

He was left with Maze and her vow to serve him. She had talked often enough of leaving Hell with him, of being, in actuality, a demon. She told him in so many ways she believed his delusions. Was she as damaged as him, or had she been playing along the last six years? Would he have listened to anyone who told him even six months ago that he was not the Devil? Had Maze fed into his delusions to protect him from himself? She had kept him from harm. She had managed his businesses until she left to find her own path. Maze might have known he would realize she had contributed to his insanity or she might have been unready to face her own. 

The cynical part of him said maybe she _enjoyed_ his dependence on her, that she had known his burgeoning sense of self would someday soon expand his emotional circles beyond her and her alone. She had been his only ally for at least five years and he hers. Whether she truly believed in the Hell he saw, she had possessed power and exclusivity in his life, both of which were taken from her when he met the detective. Whatever she believed it was good for both of them, she had found bounty hunting and a life of her own. Canada could deal with her while he dealt with reality. 

He still missed her.

 

Cameron hovered near Lucifer the next day, close enough and with intent enough to set off his favor radar. His first reaction was annoyance. With only limited phone access inside a locked ward, granting a favor could be a logistical nightmare.

He took a deep breath and reminded himself that needing every interaction to be a deal was one of those maladaptive coping mechanisms he was trying to rid himself of to become more human. No. To become healthier. _You’ve always been human._

Everyone here was in pain over something. Lucifer understood that. Most of their pain originated from within. The mind betrayed the body. His had as well, erasing his existence and making him believe he was the literal Devil for years.

Still, Stone’s family was lovely. Even when they misunderstood him and scared him, they then listened to him and _apologized_. Ava’s son took her phone calls. Isaiah’s mother came to visit and Isaiah seemed fine afterwards. Madeline’s husband came to see her. He looked sad the whole time, but he arrived at every visitation. The detective arrived sporadically, so even with the horrible family life he remembered, Lucifer wasn’t entirely alone. Cameron...no one came to visit Cameron.

Lucifer wished he could still call his devil face and hellfire for whoever had abandoned this boy.

After several aborted attempts by Cameron, Lucifer turned to him. “I believe you wish to speak with me. I can’t make any promises beyond listening, but I can assure you that I will listen.”

Cameron swallowed hard and stared at the table as he spoke. “M-my dad hurt me, too. My family threw me out. I”–he cleared his throat–“I wanted to say you’re not alone.” He huddled into an even tighter ball and said, “That’s all.”

Lucifer didn’t know how to respond. He opened his mouth, but changed his mind on his word choice and closed it again. He finally settled on what he could offer without using those ‘poor coping mechanisms’. “Cameron, would you like to join me in putting this puzzle together?”

The boy peeked at him through the curtain of his hair, then nodded.

 

He was left with the woman he had conflated with his Mother. Charlotte Richards. He didn’t know what game she was playing, but she couldn’t possibly be his Mother. The detective had documented her every movement from her birth to her current state. It wasn’t even physically possible, as she was only a few years older than him, yet his confused mind had believed her.

The danger in that airplane hangar had unmoored him in some fundamental way. The gun firing point blank into his stomach, the pain. The shock. He’d been so sure Malcolm would hand him the gun, so surprised when he heard the shot and felt the impact. The bullet-resistant shirt he must have been wearing didn't spread the impact wide enough to prevent the material from being forced into his skin. The blood on his hand shocked him into falling, into believing he was dying, into imagining a spreading pool of blood, into praying to God, his (imagined) Father, and dissociating into imageries of Hell.

Was it any surprise that his mind created a crisis for him to latch onto instead of dealing with the trauma? Then this woman came to him, fed into his delusions perfectly, and manipulated him, hurt him, tried to hurt his relationship with the detective. She was clearly deeply disturbed and dangerous and his brother was helping her. His mind swirled around the dilemma of Amenadiel again. He shook his head. It didn’t matter what his real relationship with Amenadiel was, as long as he was aiding this toxic woman pretending to be his mother. Lucifer’s grasp on reality was too tenuous already. He couldn’t afford to be in contact with either of them.

 

“Mrs. Wallins, do you have anything to share today?”

The chair barely contained the woman’s energy. She fidgeted and squirmed and started up constantly. Lucifer knew she had agreed not to interrupt group in exchange for the common room privileges she had lost weeks ago when she grabbed him in the hall. She leapt at the chance to be free of the chair. She prowled the perimeter of the circle, eying Lucifer as a predator sizing up its prey as she approached him each lap. “I don’t see why I have to sit through this stupid group just to have common room privileges. All these stupid little problems. I don’t even belong here.”

“Mrs. Wallins, this is a reminder you have agreed to follow the group rules.”

She stared at the doctor. “You can’t tell me what to do. None of you can tell me what to do. What gives you the right?!”

Dr. Phillips motioned for the orderlies to approach as Mrs. Wallins continued to rant. “Mrs. Wallins, I can see you are having a hard time with the rules right now, but I cannot allow you to endanger the other patients or yourself. Would you rather go to your room or the calming room?”

She plowed to a stop, her thighs touching Lucifer’s knees. 

He leaned away from her, hands up to ward her off. 

“I don’t want to calm down,” she said eying him with hunger.

The orderlies closed in to arm’s length of her, as the doctor tried again. “Mrs. Wallins, we can talk about this outside of the group circle.”

She pounced as Lucifer bolted from the chair, knocking it backwards with a crash. “I want him!”

“No! No, no, no,” Lucifer said as he backed away trying to pry himself free of her, but every time he got one limb free, she had clung onto him somewhere else, her mouth roaming across his neck. The orderlies tried to catch her arms. His back hit the edge of the nurse’s desk and he bent away from her. She took the opening, grabbing his crotch with a firm grip. A flicker of his old flame sparked through him and he shoved the three of them away from him.

He rose to his full height and stalked toward the woman. “No means no! You will not touch me without my leave, do you understand, foul woman?”

Mrs. Wallins crawled away from him, fear on her face. He remembered this. Remembered hurting people. People begging for mercy, and him refusing it. He stopped in his tracks as more and more memories crashed over him. The depths of torture–what he had given and what he had received–exploded in his head. He slammed his hands to his temples trying to hold it in one piece. The room flashed between what he knew to be real and scenes of fire and ash, monsters intent on eating him, wounds and burns and broken bones.

He crashed to the floor, screaming, writhing, clawing in the memories. He heard voices, felt hands and heavy pressure forcing him to the ground, and he was again before his Father, broken and bleeding, begging for mercy, only this time it ended with a creeping relaxation and oblivion.

 

 


	2. A Missing Piece

 

 

## Chapter Two

#### A Missing Piece

 

“Mr. Morningstar. Are you with us today?”

Lucifer blinked. His eyes slowly focused on Dr. Phillips. He scanned the room. It was the one he had stayed in for the last two months. He focused back on the doctor and nodded.

“Excellent. Let’s see if you can sit up on the side of the bed. I can help if you need it.”

Lucifer didn’t take the offer. He felt weak, and the room spun slightly when he put his feet on the floor. When it stopped, he looked up at the doctor who was watching him carefully. “What’s going on?”

A smile lit up the doctor’s face before he schooled it away. "It’s time for your therapy session. Can you get dressed?"

Lucifer slowly stood, and the doctor moved to the hall, waiting. The walk to the doctor’s office took a lot of Lucifer’s energy reserves, but he was settled on the couch before too long.

The doctor began, “What is the last thing you remember?”

Lucifer thought for a moment. He had been in group. Mrs. Wallins. All those memories. His breathing picked up and his heart pounded in his chest. “My Father.” He clutched the cushions to keep himself here. “But this time I didn’t fall.”

“Deep breaths. That’s it. Count them out. Better?” he asked, once Lucifer had regained his grasp on _now_.

Lucifer nodded.

“Do you remember attending group?”

“Mrs. Wallins.” He looked at the doctor again. “I didn’t mean to-I didn’t hurt anyone?”

“No, you hurt no one but yourself.” Dr. Phillips pointed at Lucifer’s chest. He saw patches of gauze bandages on his chest and arms.

“I scared her. I saw it. I remembered”–he wrapped his arms around himself–“I remembered people begging. I saw H-Hell. I saw my Father. I begged him not to send me to Hell." Wonder crept into his voice as he said, “And this time, I didn’t go to Hell.”

“How does that make you feel?”

Lucifer thought about it. “Safer?” He waved a hand across the bandages. “What happened?”

“You had a brief psychotic break, apparently triggered by Mrs. Wallins attempted sexual assault, during which you clawed at yourself. She has been sent to a more secure facility, and will not be allowed back here while you are a patient. It is important to us that you feel safe here. If you realize now or later that you don’t feel safe here, tell me or another staff member and we’ll make a plan for it. Do you understand?”

Lucifer blinked several times, before he managed to say. “You sent her away? You’re keeping me?”

“Mr. Morningstar, I want you to understand. You lashed out to stop a sexual assault that we should have prevented, and should have managed to stop more quickly once it began. We failed you. _You_ were not at fault here.”

“It was her desire. That’s-that’s what I do? I fulfill desires. What am I left with if I can’t, if I don’t want to, to do that anymore?”

“Mr. Morningstar, you have no obligation to have sex with people when you don’t want to. You have the right to say no.”

“But I _like_ sex.”

“Did you want to have sex with Mrs. Wallins?”

“No!” Lucifer shuddered. He still didn’t understand his disgust at the woman, but he knew it existed. “No. I didn’t, but she wanted it. I’m good at giving people what they want.”

“Would you ever push someone to have sex with you if they didn’t want to?”

Lucifer drew himself up with indignation. “Never! I always find out exactly what my partners desire and provide it for them…” Lucifer trailed off

“Even if it isn’t what _you_ desire?”

“I _like_ giving favors and fulfilling desires. It’s built into my nature, doctor, but…. But sometimes I feel...hollow after.”

“You believe that the other person’s wholehearted consent in favors or sex is a vital component?”

“Of course.”

“If you found out that one of your partners had been consenting solely because they thought it would please you and not out of true desire, how would you feel?”

“I–” Lucifer paused a long moment. “It would disturb me a great deal, if I ever found that to be true.”

“The other person needs your wholehearted consent as well. Imagine how they would feel if they knew how it sometimes makes you feel.”

Lucifer frowned, eyes roaming the room, before finally coming back to the doctor. A sense of dread settled over him. “No one has ever asked.”

“You are worthy of having your emotions and desires respected. Learning healthy ways to ask for and make sure you get that respect is something we can work on in your sessions if you choose.”

Lucifer froze. He couldn’t. It didn’t work like that. He didn’t know what was real in his past, but he knew it didn’t work like that. Having desires fulfilled wasn’t for him. He ran his hand through his hair, tangling his fingers in the curls and twisting. He was useful. Because if he wasn’t–his mouth dried out and his stomach dropped, if he wasn’t, Hell awaited him. He gasped for breath, his ears buzzing.

The doctor’s voice cut through the buzz telling him to breathe on his counts, so he did until the buzzing died down. “Press your feet into the floor, feel the cushions. Do you feel them?”

Lucifer nodded. The room was becoming real around him.

“Look at my hand. How many fingers am I holding up?”

Lucifer struggled to complete the simple task. The fingers swam into focus with concentration. “Three.”

Lucifer’s scalp hurt reminding him to ease his fingers free. He pulled his knees to chest, and wrapped his arms around himself, rocking slightly. He looked at the doctor, wishing he could voice the thoughts, but no words would come.

“Keep using your grounding techniques. Focus on the objects in this room. Focus on the sound of my voice. This is real. You are safe in this room. That is real.”

By the time he had calmed down, Lucifer was exhausted. Dr. Phillips insisted that he eat before returning to his room. He staggered to his bed like he was drunk, and not in the fun way. He woke in the dark, not remembering even getting under the covers. Unease filled him. He had almost believed Dr. Phillips when the man had proclaimed him worthy. He shivered under the blankets. It couldn’t be true. He was a monster. Fatigue finally dragged him back to sleep.

His dreams bore ash and blue, a door and dread, heat and compulsion. Hauled across the threshold into a church, Lucifer wept. There was a blade and Uriel. He stabbed Uriel. In their Father’s house, Uriel died in his arms.

His hands shone with Uriel’s blood. His brother’s body grew cold, but the blood persisted, warm, wet, branding his very being.

Notes from a piano drifted to him and Uriel played, alive. The blade manifested in Lucifer’s still glistening hands. His body moved, even as he begged it to stop. Uriel said again and again, “I didn’t see that coming.” Lucifer’s betrayal was fresh in his eyes with every thrust of the blade.

Lucifer begged Uriel to stop him, but Uriel died all the same. Lucifer cried out to his Father, his Mother, even Amenadiel, and still Uriel died, betrayed. So, Lucifer fractured, crumbled, shattered into so many pieces, until they lay before his brother, too few to wield the blade anew. 

* * *

Dr. Phillips strolled into his room. It was morning, but Lucifer wasn’t sure how much time had passed while he killed Uriel. “Mr. Morningstar, how are you feeling this morning? The orderly said you didn’t want to join the group?”

Lucifer stopped pacing, his fists clenching and unclenching, unseen blood slicking skin. “I killed him.”

“Who did you kill?”

“My brother. Uriel.” Lucifer surged back into motion. “I stabbed him. In the church. With Azrael’s blade.”

The doctor stepped away from Lucifer’s path. “Can you tell me when this happened?”

“Samhain.” The words tumbled forth as the dams within him broke. “He made the detective’s car crash. I didn’t have a choice. He was going to kill her. He was going to erase Mum from existence.” Lucifer stopped and spun to face the doctor. “That’s what Azrael’s blade does. No Heaven. No Hell. Just gone.”

“I can see that you’re very upset right now. We can talk about this.” The doctor held his arms loosely, his hands slightly turned so Lucifer could see he wasn’t holding anything. His calmness only reinforced Lucifer’s need for this to be over.

“I don’t want to talk!” His hands swept across his night stand scattering everything. He took a step toward the doctor and said, “I want to be punished! To get what I deserve!”

“It takes time to get the proper people involved. I am hearing that you are having a hard time waiting right now. You cannot destroy things, or hurt yourself or others here. Would you rather have some time alone to calm down–”

Lucifer stumbled back into the corner gaze flicking between his hands and Dr. Phillips. “Don’t leave me alone. _Please._ Don’t.”

“Or I have a medication here that can help you calm down while we wait together.”

Lucifer nodded frantically.

The doctor pulled a foil packet from his pocket and removed a small vape like device. “You’ll hold this, breathe out, then breathe in through that mouthpiece and hold your breath for ten seconds. The device will make a quiet noise and feel warm, and the green light here will turn off. That means it’s working. Do you understand?”

Lucifer nodded and took the device with a shaking hand. He inhaled deeply. It left a terrible taste in his mouth, but the doctor was counting down the seconds, so he held his breath as instructed.

“Good. Within ten minutes you’ll feel much better. Can you sit with me or do you prefer to stand?”

“Stand.” He fidgeted and shuffled in place trying to keep himself in check. If he left this spot, he didn’t know what he’d do, and he couldn’t risk Dr. Phillips leaving before he finished this. The energy built until he felt like he’d explode. He flung his arms wide, only barely managing to keep his feet in place. “It isn’t working!”

“It’s only been three minutes so far. Can you tell me more about your detective while we wait?”

Lucifer gripped his biceps, digging his nails in, shaking his head, anything to keep himself from being a threat. His thoughts spiraled too fast to allow him to answer. He couldn’t take being manhandled. He had to stay right here. He had to confess. After a nearly interminable period of time, the urgency slacked enough he could trust himself to stay in place and allow the doctor’s question to provide a distraction. “She is good. She’s smart and has great instincts and can take care of her-her...oh.” The lights in the room dimmed. His head felt like it was floating away. “Oh, well, I guess it’s working.” Lucifer slid down the wall.

“Mr. Morningstar?”

The voice had a ringing quality to it. He turned his head, an ungainly flop of a motion, and found the source to be Dr. Phillips.

“Dizziness and fainting can be a side-effect of this medication. I’m going to touch your arm to check your pulse, and then I’m going to put my stethoscope on your chest and back. Do you understand?”

Lucifer thrust his hand toward the doctor as answer. The Devil would never allow this violation of dignity, but _Lucifer_ had been put together with a part missing; only thin tendrils held the remaining pieces in place–so he endured. Dr. Phillips maintained distance between them, moved with caution, and withdrew.

The sensation of blood faded from Lucifer’s hands. He wrapped his arms around himself to help hold the pieces together or stop the trembling or maybe just to have something to do with them other than stare while thinking about blood and blades and his brother. Slumped in a corner, arms clutching himself, what an undignified position the Devil (man, you’re only a man) found himself in. Lucifer squeezed his arms tighter, nails digging in again. He murdered Uriel. He didn’t deserve dignity. He deserved punishment.

“It should hurt.” He didn’t turn his face toward Dr. Phillips, left his eyes fixed on a crack in the tile.

“What should?”

“My punishment. For Uriel. It should hurt.”

“Can you go back to the beginning? Explain who Uriel is and what happened?”

Lucifer forced his gaze to the doctor, and examined him before sighing, “I suppose I must do this confession the proper way.”

Dr. Phillips nodded, and his notepad and pen appeared in his hands as if by magic.

“When we were all young, I-Can I tell you how I remember it, first? It’s all wrapped up in-in fantasy.”

“Tell me however you are comfortable with for now, Mr. Morningstar.”

“I-I was younger than most of them, but I sh–” He looked at Dr. Phillips for permission. The doctor nodded, and Lucifer continued. “I shone with the Light of my Father. I possessed the power to bring Light in all its forms, and it was such a power! My older brothers respected me. Maybe they were even a little afraid of me. They always let me join them, and I was strong enough to keep up even from my youngest memories.” He swallowed. The taste of that medicine was truly disgusting.

“Then there was Uriel. He was older than me, but he was small and ugly and his power was subtle. No one ever let him play. He used to pull pranks trying to get attention.” A tiny smile tried to form, but Lucifer stopped it. “I once tricked him though–into flying too close to the event horizon of a black hole. You should have heard the row Mum and Dad had over who would pull him out. Amenadiel did it while they fought. He took the blame, too. He always did with Father.” He swallowed again (over the taste, not the lump in his throat).

“Would you like some water?” Lucifer wasn’t sure where the doctor had gotten the bottle, but he uncoiled enough to accept it.

“Thank you,” he said after drinking half. “We all grew up, and still no one liked Uriel. His power was uncanny and no one really trusted him. Dad was...distant, and Mum was unhappy. I wanted more out of life. I wanted to be my own man and make my own choices. And Mum? She whispered in my ear that my power was great enough. That I could take the Silver City by force. Kill my Father and rule in his place.” A bark of laughter erupted at his own stupid, youthful pride. “And I believed Her!”

Lucifer shook his head. His hands trembled again, and he crushed them together. “After I was cast out, Uriel got the most boring possible job in Heaven, and still no one paid him any attention. But he was smart, Uriel, and patient and stubborn. When Mum escaped Hell, and I refused to put Her back, he made a plan.” Lucifer’s voice rose in pitch as his throat tightened against the mistiness filling his eyes. “He would be the hero. _He_ would stop me this time.”

“Mr. Morningstar, take a deep breath. That’s it. Now. Let’s back up a few steps. You were briefly suspected of the murder of Jacob Williams when his body was discovered inside your club. Can you tell me about what happened then?”

“There’s not much to tell,” Lucifer snapped.

“According to the timeline we received from Detective Decker, on October 14th, 2016, they asked you to stop assisting on the case, due to indications that the case may in some way relate to you.”

Lucifer stiffened, steel in his spine and voice. “I had _nothing_ to do with the deaths of those people! They were children seeking belonging. _Innocents!_ I would never.” He collapsed back into the corner, head in his hands. “I would never. Never...”

The doctor remained quiet and motionless until Lucifer calmed down enough to look at him again. “I’m hearing that the idea you were suspect disturbs you greatly.”

Lucifer nodded. “I’m not evil.” He swallowed the acid creeping up his throat. “I w-wasn’t evil.” The words rushed out of him. “But I killed Uriel. His blood was on my hands. I can still feel it. I killed my brother, Doctor. That’s _evil_ and evil deserves to be punished.”

“You say evil as though you are sure. What makes you think that?”

“Weren’t you listening? I killed my brother!”

“On Halloween?”

“I remember insipid cartoon pumpkins everywhere, and a wedding party in pathetically inaccurate living dead garb, so yes, at Halloween.”

“It says here that the day before Halloween that Detective Decker was in a serious car crash, and that you showed a great deal of concern for her safety. Do you recall that?”

“Of course, I recall that. Uriel caused that accident. That’s how his power worked. He could see patterns. Change one tiny thing and set off a cascade of events that only he could predict. He wanted to get my attention. Prove to me he could hurt the detective, so I would give him Mum. Let him take Her back to Hell.”

“What happened next, Mr. Morningstar?”

“I didn’t have my wings. I don’t have my wings. Amenadiel went to confront Uriel. Only Amenadiel had been lying to me, hadn’t he?” Lucifer chuckled without humor. “He had fallen too, and Uriel beat him so he could hardly walk.”

“Amenadiel was injured that day as well?”

“Yes. Keep up, doctor. I think Maze took him to a medical facility and everything, like a _human_. So it was left to me, as per usual, to fix things. I went to meet Uriel. Only he had Azrael’s blade. He never wanted to take Mum to Hell. He wanted to obliterate Her, and to kill the detective.” Lucifer scrubbed his hands against his trousers, his mouth all at once too parched to speak.

“Would you like to take a break? We could continue after you’ve had something to eat or even on another day.”

Lucifer shook his head; took a sip of the water. “We fought. He...he won. I-he said I should be glad he’d never use the blade on me, but he was going to kill Mum _and_ the detective because I made things so difficult.”

“Where were you at that point?”

“Lying in a pile of broken church pews where Uriel threw, well kicked, me. Maze tried to stop him. She still believed in me then, at least enough to follow me that night, but he beat her, too. She lasted longer than I did, even though he wielded the blade against her. He was going to hit the key. The one that would set off a chain of events that would end the detective’s life.”

Lucifer wrapped his arms around himself again, and willed himself to finish. “I picked up the blade after Maze knocked it from Uriel’s hands, and I stabbed him with it. I knew that it would be a fatal blow before I struck. I knew that Azrael’s blade would end his existence, and still I struck. He fell, betrayed.” Lucifer tensed waiting for the condemnation he deserved like he had waited to be struck down by Heaven that night. When it didn’t come, he said, “You heard me, right? I killed him. On purpose. That was a confession.”

“Let’s examine what you’ve just told me, Mr. Morningstar. You were facing an adversary who was stronger than your brother Amenadiel. Stronger than your bodyguard. Stronger than you. An adversary who wanted to destroy people you cared for, and who you believed was in the process of carrying out those threats of harm when you took action. Is that correct?”

“There must have been another way. There is _always_ another way.”

“Sometimes we have to take action in a moment of great turmoil with only the limited information we have at that time. Even if, given enough time and distance, another solution can be found, that doesn’t invalidate the choice made of necessity in the moment.”

“He was my brother!”

“Family is not exempt from being a source of pain. I heard a desperate situation you did not control or ask to be part of. Would you condemn a person who killed to prevent a kidnapping?”

“Never.”

“Would you condemn a person who killed a burglar intent on murder?”

“No, but this was different.”

“Did you set out with a plan to kill Uriel?”

“Of course not, at least not with Azrael’s blade. Anything else would have simply sent him back to the Silver City. I wanted to talk him into going back.”

“Could you have saved the lives of your mother and Detective Decker any other way?”

“I could have let him take Mum back to Hell.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Take me back to Hell.” Desperation clawed at him. “The detective would have been alive!”

“Should anyone have the right to put another in a place of pain and fear against their will, Mr. Morningstar?”

Lucifer felt the tendrils holding him together quiver and loosen. He gripped them tight, ordered them to stay in place. No one had the right. He spent his entire existence choosing to make the best of being forced. The two facts coexisted uneasily within him. 

“My Father–” he began, voice tight. He cleared his throat. “My Father _takes_ that right for Himself.”

“Do you feel that that is okay?”

“Of course I don’t bloody feel that that is _okay_.” He curled in on himself. “It never stopped him though, did it? Not when it came to me.”

“Mr. Morningstar, just because your father _created_ you, it doesn’t mean he gets to _own_ you.”

“Doesn’t it?” The laugh that escaped him sounded tinged with hysteria even to his own ears.

“No. It doesn’t. You deserve the same consideration as anyone else. It was wrong of your father or anyone else to force you to do things that caused you pain and fear.”

Lucifer let the idea roll around his mind. Could he really _deserve_ –the idea settled heavily in Lucifer’s stomach. Everyone else, even Amenadiel who had broken so many tenets and caused the deaths of humans, knew they deserved another chance, but it was a luxury reserved for others. One he had never dared to consider for himself.

He finally let his gaze meet the doctor’s. “Not even if I’m the Devil?”

“Not even then.”

“Mum doesn’t want to go back to Hell. _I_ don’t want to go back to Hell. I...I _want_ to believe you, doctor. I–” His vision misted again and his shoulders rocked with the effort of forcing it away. He said slowly, “There was no other way. I couldn’t stop Uriel without the blade.” The words struggled past the lump in his throat. “I couldn’t.”

A tremor went through Lucifer. “He-He was my _brother_. Why would he…?”

“It is never your responsibility to determine someone else’s motives to hurt you, Mr. Morningstar. Everyone has their own traumas that lead them to deal with the world in a certain way, but their own actions belong to them and you never deserved any hurt they did you. All we have is how we respond.”

Lucifer ran a hand through his hair in short, rough strokes, his mind whirling between his dream and this concept of him not deserving. His muscles twitched. Exhaustion crept over him, but he couldn’t allow himself to give in to it as the idea spun out of his control and rippled along the edges of his memories. He had _rebelled_. He _deserved_ Hell. Being forced into pain and fear was _wrong_. For everyone. Even the Devil. He squeezed his eyes shut. If ever his Father was going to smite him out of existence, it would be the moment he dared to truly judge Him the evil one.

“Mr. Morningstar, how do you feel?”

His hand stilled, a clump of hair twined tightly in his fingers, and looked at the doctor. That aura of immense calm still cloaked the man. “It’s hard. To believe.” His breath stuttered in his chest. “I-I do, and He”–Lucifer glanced heavenward–“hasn’t struck me down.”

“No, he hasn’t.”

Lucifer’s hand dropped to the floor beside him. His other limbs joined the sprawl, muscles no longer able to keep him bunched into the corner. His tongue felt thick as he asked, “What now?”

“That’s up to you. Would you like to stay here or join the group?”

Talking to anyone else, risking being _touched_ by patients who had no sense of boundaries, he didn’t have the capacity for it. “Stay.”

“That’s fine. I have to see my other patients, soon. Would you rather be alone or have someone sit with you?”

“I don’t want to be alone.” A frisson of panic at admitting that weakness had him adding, “For a while at least.”

“Very well. I’ll be here until Mr. Reyes gets here.”

Lucifer nodded, his eyelids already falling shut.

 

When he woke up, he felt more okay with himself. His mind was quieter than he ever remembered it being. He showered and dressed and carefully styled his hair. It all felt right. He reached for the Devil within him and found...nothing. Was that the piece missing in his dream?

He searched his reflection for any hint of the burnt, scarred face he had once seen every morning. A human man looked back at him. A man that was too pale, who had lost weight, who, despite the judicious use of cosmetics, looked worn, but just a man.

It was really gone.

He understood that he would never know for certain what had happened to him in those missing years, or even how many of his family memories were real. Whether or not the bad things had been physically real, they had hurt him. He had to deal with how that hurt influenced his life now and move forward as healthy as he could.

He listened as Cameron stumbled and stuttered over his tale of abuse and abandonment, his fall to the streets and all the doors barred against his entry. They did puzzles together. Lucifer didn’t mind the boy being near him. He felt no compulsion to offer himself or a favor. He could just...be. He played “Don’t Stop Me Now” by Queen on the pitiful, slightly out of tune piano in the common room. Cameron perked up so much at the sound of the piano that he began teaching the boy the scales.

 

A few days later, Cameron sat at the piano, slowly working through the scales while Lucifer stood nearby, proudly. The boy sat with perfect posture and put his full concentration into the work. 

“Lucifer?” 

He smiled at the sound of the detective's voice, and motioned to Cameron to get his attention. “Pardon me, Cameron?”

The boy nodded and slowly moved his fingers across the keys again.

Lucifer stepped away from the piano bench. “Detective!”

Her eyes roved over him. “You look great, Lucifer. You’re feeling better?”

He motioned her to a couch and sat half-turned to face her. “I am, Detective. Better than I can ever remember feeling, in fact. I believe that I am approaching the end of my need to be here continuously.”

Her look was guarded. “Have you talked to Dr. Phillips about it?”

 

He glanced away with a grin and a small huff. “I _am_ here voluntarily, Detective, but the doctor and I are working on a transition and continuing care plan. I wanted you to sit to hear this.”

She settled herself and said, “Okay.”

He took a deep breath and met her eyes. “The doctor feels, and I agree, that it would be best that I not attend cases immediately upon my release. I need to get my work life in order, reconnect with my friends and settle into a new status quo before adding case work. As Stone reminded me, life outside is hectic and stressful and that’s hard on a brain that doesn’t work quite right.”

She held her hand out and he took it. “Lucifer, that’s fine. It’ll still be there for you when you’re ready, and if you never are, I’ll still be your friend.” She squeezed his hand. “Would you like to come over for a movie and board game night with me and Trixie after you’ve settled in?”

He smiled at her. “I would like that very much, Detective.”

“Do you need anything? Will you need a ride home?”

Lucifer laughed. “I haven’t gotten that far in my plans with the doctor, Detective! But thank you. I would love a ride home when the time comes.”

“Maze said she found her bounty. She should be back in the States soon.”

Lucifer pulled his hand from the detective’s. “Really? I–That’s good.”

“Are you worried about seeing her, Lucifer?”

“More...cautious. I’m not sure how she will react to my newfound humanity.”

“She has her own life bounty hunting now, I think she’ll be fine.”

Lucifer swallowed hard. “Of course. How is Daniel faring? Is his pudding safe now?”

She laughed. “Did you ask people to take over stealing his pudding?”

Lucifer snorted. “I did not. I _suspect_ that any continued pudding theft is of his own making. He made it well known that it bothered him, and people can be quite petty.”

She narrowed her eyes at him as if she didn’t entirely believe him, but didn’t pursue it. “Other than that, he’s doing really well, Lucifer. He’s really stepped up with Trixie. I’m”–her eyes grew wet–“I’m glad you’re taking such an interest, Lucifer.”

“In Daniel?”

“In anything. This is the most words you’ve strung together during a visit since you’ve been here.”

“I can’t guarantee I will not have future bad days, Detective. I’ve had many talkative days here and many where talking took too much effort. I am _better_ , Detective, not cured. I am human. I know that now, but I didn’t believe it when I arrived. I am mentally ill and that is something that will persist throughout my life. You do understand that?”

“I do, Lucifer.”

He smiled at her. “So how is Ella?”

They talked for the rest of the hour.

 

Over the next week, in-between making plans and arrangements, Lucifer listened, as he had promised to do, as Cameron told him about the man who had ‘saved’ him from sleeping on the street. For the first time he felt inadequate being only human. Lucifer wished he still knew for certain Hell existed. He held himself in check and listened, and maybe that was the human thing to do. He could only control _his_ actions. He could choose to listen and offer a seat at the puzzle table and teach piano scales. He could choose to visit after he got out.

 

He stood before the group. In the morning, the detective would arrive to take him to Lux for a few hours. He fidgeted, twisting his hands together before finally saying, “I know I’ll be back for group, but it feels like such a finality.”

“Does anyone have anything they’d like to say to Mr. Morningstar?”

“Remember that it’s not selfish to take care of yourself,” Ava said.

“If you don’t, how can you have anything to share with others,” Madeline added.

“It’s not failure if you need to come back. Don’t push until you lose all your progress.” Stone nodded at him, his eyes full of remorse from past experience.

“The fun drugs mess with the meds. The meds keep your head straight. Do what you want with that.” Isaiah put on a sneer, but Lucifer knew jealousy was behind it. Isaiah had been complaining all week that he was on his meds and off the drugs and should be up for release next, court order be damned.

Cameron had been speaking up, sitting properly in his chair, sometimes not even staying hidden behind his hair. Today was not one of those days. He managed to peek out enough to say, “Be careful.”

 

 


	3. All the Small Things

 

 

## Chapter Three

#### All the Small Things

 

Lucifer weathered the two-week transition. The first few days, he had made short day trips to his home and around the city, reasserting himself slowly over his business and affairs. He returned for group therapy and spent the night in his room. He slowly took responsibility for managing his own medications, cooking, cleaning, all the little daily things that he hadn't managed for the past months. His belief that he was the actual devil hadn't returned, and he didn't feel he was grasping the edge of the abyss by his fingernails like he had at first in the hospital.

He stirred the eggs in the skillet. His first breakfast back home. He felt good. His nightclub was in capable hands with Katrina as manager. She had seamlessly covered for his absence with guest musicians. She had been running the day-to-day, monotonous aspects of the business since Maze left him, so it wasn't a leap. He had taken a few sets the night before, and planned to continue it. Nothing too strenuous, and up to bed before the change over from piano bar to nightclub. If he managed his stress levels, he had a good chance of managing his mental health. He was finally important enough to himself to try.

He piled the eggs onto his plate, joining the fruit mix and toast. Not a drop of alcohol in the breakfast. He had decided to make a clean break with alcohol. It didn't mix well with his medications, and he had leaned on it so heavily before that he didn't want to risk it yet. 

The elevator dinged.

"Lucifer!" 

"Maze!" He stepped out of the kitchen and placed the plate of food on the bar. "Would you like some breakfast?"

"Don't think you can bribe your way out of this, Lucifer." She eyed the plate as if she expected it to be full of poison.

"Bribe?" He glanced at the plate. "I was trying for polite." 

She raised an eyebrow. "Polite. You? Decker didn't lie then. You think you're a puny"—she shuddered—" _human._ "

He pushed the plate toward her, and she began eating quickly. "I am, Maze." He paused while she glared at him. When she took another bite he said, "I thank you for all you've done to keep me safe over the years."

She spluttered eggs back onto her plate. "What did they do to you in that place?"

"They helped me. They—"

"Ugh. Is this going to be _feelings_? Are you trying to make me sick?"

He smiled with a huff. "I missed you, Mazikeen, and I realize now that I spent a lot of time taking you for granted." She waved at him to continue, her expression cautious. "I apologize for my callous behavior, especially in the last year. You deserve more respect than I gave you."

She slid off the stool and backed away, watching him suspiciously with narrowed eyes. Her voice dropped to a growl, "I'll fix this, Lucifer. I _will_ fix this."

"I am fixed!" he called as the elevator doors closed.

He sighed and picked up the plate. It hadn't turned violent, so it wasn't as bad as it could have been. He scraped the food into the bin and started over.

 

Lucifer snuggled into the blankets. He was handling life, and he was proud of himself. He was. Maybe life felt too small now, though? He liked being the life of the party, the willing host, the center of debauchery. Going to bed while the party had only just begun downstairs—and alone to boot—made him miss being the devil. He sighed and closed his eyes. The quiet in his penthouse mirrored the quiet in his head. This life was smaller, but it hurt less, and that seemed a fair trade. 

The elevator dinged. He flung back the covers and pulled on his robe. He really had to install some sort of lock on that or he'd never get any sleep. 

"Lucifer?" Amenadiel sounded confused. "Why's it so dark in here?"

"One does tend to dim the lights while trying to sleep, brother," Lucifer said as he adjusted the lights. He left them dim in the hopes that Amenadiel couldn't see his fear. 

Amenadiel peered around him toward the bed. "You were sleeping at"—he checked his watch—"ten o'clock at night?"

Lucifer crossed his arms. Hiding fear behind bravado was a game he had perfected eons—years; years, dammit—ago when dealing with Amenadiel. "It's a perfectly reasonable time to go to bed."

"For an old human, maybe, but Luci, you're not—"

"Don't." He didn't have to entertain Amenadiel's manipulations.

Amenadiel swallowed his words. He drew his eyes up Lucifer, evaluating. "So it's true. You've allowed the humans to…” He shook his head sharply, then put on a softer expression. "Luci, you're confused. You need help." He reached for Lucifer's shoulder.

Lucifer jerked his body away. "You mean I got help. That I'm no longer subject to your manipulations, and you want to regain control."

"Lucifer…" The corners of his mouth quirked, and he straightened them, obviously trying to maintain decorum. A guffaw burst forth. He doubled over, laughing. "Regain control…" He struggled back upright, laughter still bubbling over. "Luci, I have _never_ been in control of you. I tried. For eons, I tried. I even believed I had it, but, Luci, that was all a lie I told myself."

Lucifer took a step back, stumbled and caught himself on the rough stone wall. He had prepared for many possible scenarios, but Amenadiel laughing at him had never crossed his mind. 

The mirth disappeared from Amenadiel's demeanor. "Lucifer? You know I don't want to control you, don't you?"

Flashes of Amenadiel returning him to hell, again and again, flitted through his mind. "You were my jailor, Amenadiel!"

"I was, but no more. Father has abandoned me too. Don't you see? We have Azrael's blade. We can go home, but only you can ignite it." He took a step forward, body language changing to subtly threatening. "Mom has been patient while you played your games with the humans at that _hospital,_ but she will not wait much longer. She needs _you._ " His mouth twisted into a sneer on the last word. 

_Staring at the blade, grief pouring through him, and the blade flickering to life for only a few seconds. Lucifer shook his head._

"No. No, no, no. That's not real. You..." His breathing sped up. "You…" 

_Fighting on the beach after he burned the wings. Fighting here, and Malcolm escaping to murder that pathetic street preacher. Amenadiel's wing blades at his throat. "And evil…. You are the Devil, after all."_

He took a deep breath, counted in and out. Pressed himself against the wall, flexed his fingers across the rough texture, tapped the band of his ring against it, concentrated on the contrast with the slip of his silk robe and the cold marble under his feet. _This_ is real. Find three mythological references in the decor. Yggdrasil. Inanna. Nataraja. Identify two sounds. The thudding of his heart took over his senses for a moment before he forced himself to focus on the room. _There_. The fire crackling in the corner. The shelf full of clocks, ticking steadily. And finally identify the scents beyond his own fear. Bergamot, cinnamon, vanilla, oak. He inhaled deeply, savoring them, counting to the ticking, and the images faded. His heart slowed, and his body passed the urge to lash out in self-defence. 

He turned his gaze to Amenadiel, who hadn't moved, who stared at him agape. "This is my home, Amenadiel. It is time for you to leave."

"Lucifer, Mom needs you. As much as it pains me, I can't light the sword."

"No one can 'light the sword'. It's not _real_."

Amenadiel shook his head sharply. "Play your little game. I'll go for now." He stalked to the elevator and jabbed the button. He leaned into the corner, his arms crossed tightly. As the doors began closing, he fidgeted with his necklace. His shoulders sagged and his head dipped. Just as the doors closed completely, his eyes cut up, spearing Lucifer.

Lucifer sank to the floor. He wrapped his arms around his knees and buried his face in the huddle. It wasn't real. None of it was real. Why would Amenadiel do this to him? Why would his brother want him to embrace his illness? _It is never your responsibility to determine someone else's motives to hurt you...All we have is how we respond._

Anger flared. As the adrenaline wore off, tremors ran through his limbs. Amenadiel had no right to manipulate him like that. He bolted to his feet and paced. It was wrong and he did not have to put up with it. He wasn't going to any longer. A lock was going on that elevator tomorrow. He snatched up his phone and sent a message to the detective, asking her to call him. The energy began to deplete, leaving him feeling out of sorts, but too worn out to do anything about it. He flopped onto the couch. The detective hadn't texted him back. He checked the time and grimaced; she was probably in bed already.

He stared at his phone for a couple of minutes, hoping for it to ring or for a message to pop up. Then the aches and crushing weariness of the post-adrenaline surge letdown set in. He had become familiar with this reality since his forced sobriety in the hospital, but it still felt foreign, wrong. Dr. Phillips suggested the foreignness was due to the years he had spent drunk and drugged. A bath would work to both soothe his body and calm his mind. They had talked about this strategy in preparation for his leaving the hospital. He dragged himself up off the couch. 

His bath was in a smaller, more private room than his shower. He set the sound system to rain with distant rumbles of thunder. This room was one of the only ones with a door in the penthouse, sacrificing the comfort of never being shut in for its own thermostat setting. The door was lightly frosted glass so he wasn't entirely enclosed visually, which was an acceptable compromise given the relief that washed over him when he stepped into the heat. The water was preset to the perfect temperature, so a single press of a knob started the tub filling. He considered the selection of add-ins on display on the small shelf beside the tub, and threw in a lavender scented soaking powder packet.

He stripped off his clothes and pressed the candle light preset on the room's lighting controls. The overhead lights dimmed, and the electronic candles ensconced around the room flickered to life. He had real candles around the room as well, but these were far simpler. He slid into the tub with a sigh of pleasure. It was custom made, molded to perfectly cradle his body and accommodate his height. The sensory inputs were perfect. He drifted in the moment without a single thought, nearly asleep, when the phone rang. 

He dried his hand on the towel and answered. "Detective!"

"Lucifer? Is everything okay?"

"Yes, of course it is. I'm having a bath."

"You...asked me to call you as soon as I got that message because you're having a bath?"

"Oh, no, no, no! I was upset earlier when I sent that. Amenadiel had just left, you see."

"Lucifer?"

"Hmm?"

"Did you take something?"

Lucifer felt like a bucket of cold water had been dumped over his head, washing away the lassitude he'd achieved with the bath. "Detective, I assure you that I am clean and sober."

"Okay, Lucifer. You said Amenadiel came to see you? What happened?"

"I'm installing a lock on my elevator tomorrow, Detective, but that's not why I wanted to talk to you. I'd like to come to work tomorrow."

"It's not just to not be alone, is it, Lucifer? I can drive you to the hospital and pick you up after group, if you want."

"No. That's not it. I handled Amenadiel well, Detective. It's upsetting that my brother would choose to try to manipulate me the way he did, but"—he huffed—"I controlled my reaction, told him to leave, and he did. If I can handle dealing with my brother trying to convince me my delusions are real, then I'm ready for anything a case can throw my way."

"Alright, Lucifer. I'll pick you up in the morning at ten. I've got a transferred case the lieutenant assigned just before the end of shift today. You'll let me know if you're getting stressed?"

"You have my word, Detective."

"Then I'll pick you up at eight." She yawned. "It's late, Lucifer. I'm falling asleep here."

"Of course. I'll see you in the morning."

 

The next morning, Lucifer stood by the elevator in the parking garage fidgeting with his cufflinks, waiting for the detective to pick him up. She arrived at 9:58. He got into the car, beaming a smile at her. "Good morning, Detective!"

She gave him an appraising look. It rankled a little, but he accepted that the looks weren't likely to go away for a long while. He had badly scared her when he lost himself. He must have passed muster, for she smiled and patted his knee. "It's good to have you coming to work with me today, Lucifer." She fished in the backseat and handed him a file. "See what you make of this while I get us to the highway. Then we can talk it over."

Lucifer opened the casefile. A copy of a driver's license was clipped to the inside front cover. A Tafton Wilcocks—Lucifer snorted, all the taunting that name lent itself to flitting through his mind. He glanced at the detective who had a barely suppressed smirk. She pulled out of the parking garage. Even at ten in the morning, traffic was heavy, an oppressive sea of humanity with all its varied wants and _desires_. He swallowed and resolutely focused on the casefile.

Tafton Wilcocks— _snerk_ —age sixty-eight. Hmm. Address Beverly Hills off Mulholland, so Tafton had been wealthy, likely generationally wealthy. Height was listed as 6'1" and weight as two hundred pounds. Lucifer adjusted that for the human propensity for self-aggrandizement; a man six feet tall and two hundred twenty-five pounds, then. 

The next page contained the autopsy report. Tafton had been stabbed multiple times, although the first had been a brutal strike rising up under the ribcage to destroy the heart. The rest were inflicted after the heart stopped beating and were more scattered, random. The conclusion reached by the initially-assigned detective was that the first strike had been lucky, the rest a sign of anger or derangement. A cover-up of the obvious expertise was more likely, Lucifer thought. 

_He thrust the knife upward and gave it a vicious twist. The soul, suspended from the ceiling by chains, wailed piteously as it perished. "No! How have you survived Hell for so long without possessing these skills?" Maze stalked around him, an open sneer on her face that he would tolerate from none other. The soul gasped to renewed awareness. "Again, Lucifer! When you do it right, they don't have time to screech!"_

Lucifer gasped, his eyes flying open and darting wildly until his gaze settled on the detective. _Not real. Not real. Not real._

"Lucifer? What happened? Talk to me."

He stared at her as she stole glances from the road. With a deep breath he settled himself. He would handle work today. Failure was not an allowable outcome. "I-it was nothing, Detective. I merely startled myself. What did you think of Officer Haney's assessment of the crime?"

She didn't answer for a bit, merging onto the 101 and edging her way into traffic. "Is something about it bothering you, Lucifer?"

"I don't"—he swallowed hard—"don't think the first blow was lucky. It takes practice and skill to so thoroughly destroy the heart and lower trachea."

"How do you know that, Lucifer?" Her eyes were locked on the traffic, but Lucifer heard the tremble in her voice.

"I don't _know_ , Detective. It's a memory. They aren't real. They _can't be real_ , but I'm not wrong. It's exceedingly unlikely that this injury was the result of beginner's luck."

She swallowed hard, and Lucifer's heart sped up, thudding in his ears. "I agree." She glanced at him. "It's okay, Lucifer." Her tone lightened with obvious force. "Did you get to the part about where he was found?"

Lucifer shook his head.

"Outside the Westlake Theatre. Wearing a costume."

"What was a man as wealthy as this one doing performing in a playhouse that had passed its prime by the 1950s? Really, I had no idea that it still functioned as a theatre." 

Flashes of art deco and watching Buster Keaton and Anita Page flashed through his mind. Could that be a real memory of watching a classic movie showing?

"Well, the Westlake has definitely seen better days. The neighborhood really hit hard times in the ‘80s and ‘90s. A lot of crime. The theatre was about to be converted into a swap meet in '91, but a local historical society scraped together enough to save it. They turned it into a nonprofit community center that focuses on the arts."

"That leaves me more confused as to why this very wealthy man was there and initially unidentified."

"Exactly! That is what makes this case so unusual. None of his people reported knowing why he would be there, and he gave the theater group a fake name. We're going to interview his children and some of his household staff, then the theater group later."

Lucifer settled into his seat. The detective seemed genuinely excited at the puzzle presented here, and her unease at his grisly knowledge seemed to have dissipated. He returned to the case file as they made slow progress toward Mulholland. 

Tafton was the president and former CEO of a large trading company, a position inherited from his father. The family had been involved in the initial exploitation of L.A.'s oil fields and had the vintage mansion to prove it. He had been suspected of various white-collar crimes over the years, backed up by a printout of an Los Angeles Telegraph article nicknaming him "Teflon" Wilcocks. Lucifer checked the date of the article. 1997. Interesting. The cases with his name attached to them had dried up, as well. 

A further page displayed an article, also from 1997, about the arrest of a Nolan Wilcocks, age seventeen. All the salacious details were lovingly written out. Young Nolan had been caught cheating at his prestigious prep academy. He had been accused of bullying, hazing, and various other infractions that marked the future successful sociopath or American CEO, had he been intelligent enough to not be caught. Another article, much smaller in its lack of sensationalism, stated that Nolan had been reinstated at his school, and all further allegations had been dropped by both the police and school.

Obviously daddy had 'fixed' things for the young man. Would he be grateful as an adult or resentful? Lucifer had seen it go both ways. The detective had found all this interesting, too, judging by the amount of information she had printed out regarding Nolan Wilcocks. He had not attended an Ivy League school after his incident. He had gone to UCLA and graduated with a degree in environmental studies. He was now a professor at the University of California, Santa Cruz. Interesting that the son, who had all the earmarks of following in his father's crooked steps, had not then followed. Also rare that a man guarding a generational company would allow his son to escape the family business, no matter how ill-suited the son. 

The next page listed all staff that had worked for the family in the last two years. The list was short: a driver, two housekeepers, and a household manager. Renewing contracts were listed for security, grounds maintenance, and pool cleaning. A handful of one-time contractors were listed for plumbing, electrical, and construction. A younger sister, Rosalind, married with one child, a graduate of Harvard, and longtime chief operating officer. The husband was listed as chief revenue officer. Lucifer looked at the detective to ask for clarification of the titles. The intricacies of boardrooms had never been of particular interest to him outside of the potential for an orgy. She was muttering under her breath at the idiocy of the drivers around her, so he went back to reading. 

The last page of the family history section of the file listed another sibling, a younger brother named Brett, a middle child only a year younger than Nolan. Brett _had_ graduated from Harvard Business School and was now CEO, formerly CFO, at the family company. Ah, young Nolan's situation made more sense now. The elder brother had been supplanted by the younger in the wake of his scandal. That could be a powder keg in the family if Nolan resented his brother's financial success. 

They finally reached their exit, and if the size of the estates didn't drive the point home, the lack of choking, bumper-to-bumper traffic did: this place represented a different caste than the rest of L.A. 

"What did you get, Lucifer?" the detective asked now that she wasn't snarled in traffic. 

"On paper there seems to be great potential for sibling rivalry. And there is very little staff overturn. Either Tafton Wilcocks paid generously or he had some other method of engendering loyalty." Lucifer thought for a moment. "It's possible that something changed after his son's trouble. He stopped being suspected of shady deals. Did he genuinely change, or did he get better at hiding it?"

"Spot on. I talked to his office staff this morning to arrange interviews, and they were all fiercely loyal, too. This guy was charismatic."

She turned off on Mulholland Place and there was instantly more distance between estates. A large fence ran along the road. Dense rows of trees and shrubs blocked their view of the grounds. They reached a gate with a small, manned gatehouse. The detective pulled up and spoke with the guard. She showed her badge and signed a log before the man nodded and returned to his station to open the gate. A winding drive led to the house, giving the impression of greater distance from the road, though Lucifer knew it was just out of sight behind a slight hill. 

How did he know that? He frowned. Focus on the case instead. "The man has children, but I didn't see a wife listed."

The detective glanced over at the file. "The pages must have gotten out of order. She died two years ago after a series of strokes. Apparently he gave up day-to-day control of the company to spend more time with her at the end."

They stopped in the circular drive in front of the house. It was smaller than many of the gaudy homes of the newly rich, and Lucifer recognized quality craftsmanship and materials. Homes like this were no longer being built. This building would be standing in another hundred years, given proper maintenance. 

They exited the car, and a wave of disorientation swept over him. The trim and window boards were the wrong color, and there should have been a carriage shelter over the unloading area. A flash of a young woman wearing a shiny flapper dress and a long string of pearls running toward him hit him so hard that the detective was tugging at his outstretched arm before he realized he had stepped forward to catch her. He turned to her, stricken. He could see in her eyes that she was calculating whether or not to abort her interview to take him back to the hospital. He turned away, ashamed of his lack of control. 

"I recognize this place, Detective. I've been here before." He cocked his head to the side, thinking about what he'd seen. "It must have been at a Halloween celebration? She wore a-a costume in the style of the 1920s." The words tasted like dust in his mouth—lies, they were lies—he shook the thought away, and pressed on with a burgeoning hope. "Perhaps I am remembering my actual past?"

She squeezed his arm tighter then released him with a final pat. "Maybe, Lucifer, and that's great if you are. Do you think you're up for doing these interviews or would you rather wait in the car?"

"I can do this, Detective. I swear to you."

She caught his eyes and held his gaze as she said, "I believe you, Lucifer. Okay. Let's do this."

When they reached the door, it was opened before Lucifer had a chance to touch the antique knocker. He gave it a wistful look. It _wanted_ to be used. He could feel its disgust at never being allowed to be useful anymore. The detective was already speaking to the matronly woman that had opened the door. 

"—Morningstar, a civilian consultant, and my partner. Is everyone available as I asked?"

"Everyone is present, except young Mr. Wilcocks. He asked me to inform you of his regrets at being unable to get away from the duties of setting his father's affairs." She must be Sylvia Rhineholt, the household manager.

"Did he leave word of when he _would_ be available?"

The woman smiled in a way that screamed insincerity as she said, "I'm afraid he did not, but I'm sure it won't be too long."

"And where is he doing this important work?"

"I'm afraid I don't know, Detective Decker." 

The detective looked at Lucifer and nodded toward the woman. He swallowed. People liked telling him things, right? 

He stepped up to the woman and looked deeply into her eyes. He felt no resonance with her as he remembered, but he expected none. Still, he was handsome and charming. "Ms. Rhineholt," he began. Something told him to play it more intimate with her. "Sylvia, darling, why don't you tell us where he is?" He took her hand and stroked the back of it with his thumb as he continued. "What he's _really_ doing."

She sighed deeply. "Oh, I'd like to. You're a cute boy, and I haven't had anyone try sex appeal to get information from me in, oh, decades, but I'm afraid I actually don't know and I like my job, so I will not speculate." She pulled her hand away with a small shake of her head, and said, "This way, please."

Lucifer stared after her for a moment. _Cute boy_?

The detective patted his shoulder as she went by. 

He was thirty-five years old. Billions of years old interjected itself into his mind, but he forcefully shoved it aside to focus on the absurdity of being called a _cute boy_. He snorted, but dutifully trotted after her.

"Nolan. Just sit down! You're scaring Dominic."

"Oh, I'm sorry. My father was just bru—"

"Nolan!"

" _—tally murdered._ " The sentence was finished sotto voce, but Lucifer picked it up anyway.

Entering the room, Lucifer saw a woman, Rosalind presumably, holding a child. Nolan paced in the corner, his head lolling on his shoulders, eyes fixed on the ceiling. His hands were held at shoulder level and alternated between clenching rhythmically and shaking. He was dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt, both of which had stains that looked suspiciously like dirt.

Seeing their expressions, the woman gave a long suffering sigh, and passed the child off to Ms. Rhineholt. She gestured for them to follow her. "Please forgive Nolan. He's normally a lot calmer and more functional than this, but he doesn't deal well with change or stress. It was bad enough with Mother, and we had months to say goodbye." She directed them into a small office. "It would be best if you could come back another day to talk to him. You'll only get nastiness out of him, if he talks at all, when he's like this."

"What is—?"

"What's wrong with him? He'd normally say absolutely nothing is wrong with him. That he was born this way and saying he's wrong is just an insult to neurodiverse people, but he likes to forget days like this. He has Asperger's Syndrome. Please don't call him autistic. I know the terms have officially changed, but being an Aspie is his identity."

"I see. When was he diagnosed?"

"Seventeen. I know how this works, detective. You've done your family background check. You've found the articles, and you're here because you think Nolan could have killed Father in some fit of jealousy at being cut out of the family business."

The detective didn't respond. 

"Nolan couldn't hurt anyone. He works at the Center for Agroecology and Sustainable Food Systems at UC Santa Cruz. He teaches organic farming, and spending his days in the dirt makes him happy. He and Father spoke daily on the phone. He comes home the third weekend of every month. His last visit was two weeks ago, which should be easily verifiable. You can see how he deals with changes to his routine. The charges against him were dropped back then because he hadn't done anything wrong then either."

"You're very protective of your big brother."

"I am. Fiercely."

The walls were decorated with old portraits. One in particular caught Lucifer's eye. It was a small photo, almost hidden in a corner. The woman from his vision grinned into the camera, her sparkling eyes clear and pale in the greyscale. They had been a startling ice blue. Her infectious laugh had caught his attention from across the party room. Her beauty couldn't be captured adequately in a photo. It stilled her frenetic movements and muted the impertinent intelligence. _May._ Her name had been May, and he had not had the displeasure of seeing her in Hell.

No!

His mind was just grasping at straws. Filling in blanks. He hadn't known her. 

"Lucifer? What are you looking at?"

He softly caressed the air above the picture. "Who is this?"

"Oh." Rosalind seemed caught off guard, but her expression softened when she focused on him. "That's my grandfather's Aunt May. She was quite the rebel. Ran away to marry a poet, I think. The family history lost track of her after that. Failure to marry to standards and all that."

"You would never fail in your family duty, would you, Mrs. Roberts?"

She shook her head slightly. "No. I wouldn't. This company is my life, and I am satisfied with that. I like business. I'm glad when the ones like Nolan are able to pursue what makes them happy, but that requires someone like me taking responsibility."

"And what about your other brother, Brett?"

"Brett is a company man all the way. He's always known he wanted the company." Her tone snapped Lucifer's attention away from the picture. He wasn't sure what to call it, but her emotions toward this brother were vastly different than those toward Nolan.

"And where is he now, Mrs. Roberts?"

"He's handling the transition of the company. Father planned to hand over the presidency in two years, but a lot of legal work still needs to be done."

Lucifer caught an undertone of fear. That, at least, he could easily recognize. Nolan had been accused of many behaviors in that article. Many of which required a deft usage of social skills and a willingness to hurt people. "Brett was behind the trouble Nolan was accused of causing, wasn't he?"

Her head snapped toward Lucifer, her response answering better than words could. She turned back to the detective. "I do still have to plan my father's funeral. You have everyone's written itineraries, except Nolan's, and it will be easy enough for you to verify his travel since he doesn't drive."

"I'd like to talk to him," Lucifer said.

"I won't stop you from trying. I want to get the 'suspect the family' stage of this investigation over as quickly as possible, so you can find who _actually_ killed my father, but don't expect too much cooperation from him today."

"Are you sure, Lucifer?"

He nodded and left the office. He faintly heard Rosalind's, "Is he…?" before he passed out of hearing. He sighed. _Unfocused. Missing parts of conversations. Giving the family reason to ask about his mental state._ The detective would be sorely disappointed in him over his performance today. He opened the door to the parlour and found Nolan sitting on the sofa, rocking in place, but overall calmer than when they had arrived.

He sat in a chair a distance away. "Hello. I'm Lucifer Morningstar."

"My sister said the police were coming, not actors."

"I do a bit of singing, but I've never had the pleasure of acting before. I'm a consultant to the police. Detective Decker is my partner."

Nolan glanced at him, then away. "It's not a good time to talk, to talk, to talk."

"I imagine not. You loved your father quite dearly, didn't you? He encouraged you to find a life pursuit you loved, yes?"

Nolan nodded and the rocking slowed. "I don't deal well with stress, but don't think that gives you the right to patronize me, Mr. Morningstar."

"I've recently come to realize that I don't deal well with stress, either, so just one question, and I'll go."

"One question today, then. Come back tomorrow at two. I'll be ready to talk."

"How did your father change after the trouble at your school?"

Nolan stopped moving and gave him a hard glare. Then he sighed. "He talked to me, and for the first time, he listened. He became my best friend, Mr. Morningstar."

"Do you have any idea why he was at a struggling playhouse in Westlake?"

He bolted to his feet and began pacing again. "You said one question. That's two questions. I don't have to answer two questions. Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow."

He repeated it once each round of pacing, and Lucifer slowly left the room. The detective and Mrs. Roberts were waiting for him in the vestibule. "Mr. Wilcocks has stated that he'd like us to come back tomorrow at two to complete an interview."

She gave Lucifer an appraising look. "I'll make arrangements with the guards to expect you then."

"Will Brett Wilcocks be present at that time?" the detective asked.

"I believe you will ultimately need to speak with Catherine McDaniels at Harvey and McDaniels Law Firm to make arrangements to interview Brett."

"Thank you, Mrs. Roberts."

 

 


End file.
